There’s that drawn out catalytic moment between admission and reaction keeping figures apart in this pristine black granite topped kitchen in the suburbs. And seconds marked by a clock on the wall tick out every despairing moment of confusion, shock, numbness and relief in slow mo.
And they’re sitting eyes fixed on him as he’s looking down at the manicured lawns and immaculate houses beyond while Johnny Bristol’s Hang On In There Baby plays out across the scene from an upstairs window.
Slow down, speed up.